Midas’s daughter

I bask, fasting drunk.
My light fills the atrium —
summer’s reflection.

My clockwork father —
sweating self-apologist —
appears as usual,

folded up below,
pleading to Bacchus for his
confiscated loot.

I remember well,
loosened consonants dripping
from his drink-slack tongue.

“Little one!” “Baby!”
emetic wheedling to purge
a request’s dark taint —

I danced at his feast,
a delicacy displayed
for his brotherhood.

They applauded him
for that generosity.
He chose an apt prize.

My eye is metal.
My body is blank beauty,
the god’s benison.

I am no soft girl.
I am my own ornament,
and that is golden. 

[Eleanor Carpenter is from London. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications including Neologism Poetry Journal, Thimble Literary Magazine, Carmina Magazine, Pictura Journal and Right Hand Pointing.]